


Je n'en dis rien

by voidstuff (Schadenfreudah)



Category: Bleach
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, F/M, Pelléas et Mélisande AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:27:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22641826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schadenfreudah/pseuds/voidstuff
Summary: There was a strange sense of déjà vu as she looked over her shoulder once more and made eye contact with the second man to sneak up on her in the past half-year. The air hummed with a rhythm she had never heard before, and Orihime thought to herself, bewildered, I’ve fallen in love.
Relationships: Ulquiorra Cifer/Inoue Orihime
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	Je n'en dis rien

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally a zine piece. It was also posted to Tumblr for UlquiHime week.

The water rippled, concentric circles spreading and dissolving into one another, carried by the waves of the receding tide.

Orihime stared into the glassy surface, eyes fixated on her own wavering expression. Her long, red hair––illuminated by the moon that shone overhead––was clearly visible, as was the outline of her body, stark against the inky night. But her eyes, she couldn’t see no matter how deeply she looked into the water. They were clouded by something––inaccessible behind watery shutters, blurred by the rolling waves––and she mourned them.

From behind her, she could faintly hear the cracking of twigs. It wasn’t unusual at this time of night; small animals often roamed the forest, scurrying to find shelter. But there was something different, somehow––the cracks were louder than usual, more frequent with fewer seconds in between. It whispered in her blood and trickled to her heart; like icy wind, it blew on the base of her spine and sent shivers down her back. Frightened out of the blue, Orihime looked over her shoulder, letting the piles of hair pooled on her lap swing onto the floor.

Standing at the mouth of the clearing was a man dressed in hunting gear, rifle slung over his arm. Behind him, a horse was tied to a tree. His hair––orange, she noted faintly––looked like hers; his brown eyes were inquisitive. When Orihime said nothing, he cleared his throat, breaking the stunned silence that had set upon them.

“Who are you?” asked the man, voice filled with a wondrous sort of awe. “And, why are you––oh. Your hair, it’s getting wet…”

Orihime looked to where his gaze had traveled with detached disinterest. It was true; long ropes of hair hung in the water like seaweed, swaying gently with the tide.

“Never mind that,” continued the man hastily, taking a step closer to her. On instinct, Orihime flinched away, ducking her head. Frowning, the man stopped in his tracks, holding his hands up in a vague gesture of surrender. “My name is Kurosaki Ichigo. I must ask, what is a woman as beautiful as yourself doing out here so late at night? Don’t you know how dangerous it is?”

“It doesn’t matter,” replied Orihime at last. “As long as I can see myself… then nothing else matters…”

The man’s brow furrowed on his forehead. He looked confused; he didn’t understand, but that was only to be expected.

“Where do you come from?” he probed instead, dropping his previous line of inquiry. “I’ve never seen someone with such long hair before. Is it a custom among your people?”

Orihime didn’t respond. She thought nothing of the question; she thought nothing of the man. She felt nothing.

There was silence for a moment, until the man took another step towards Orihime. This time, she didn’t flinch: he fixed her with a steadfast look, but it meant nothing anymore. She was no longer afraid; she felt no emotion whatsoever at the sight of them. She still felt nothing.

“I realize this is abrupt,” he said, eyes burning with passion, “and I’m sure you will have objections, but I must insist you join me as my wife. My residence is not twenty miles from here. We can easily make the journey.”

Orihime blinked. This, she understood, was not a request. “Take me there,” she said simply, and rose to her feet. Her hair dripped with water and dragged on the dirt, leaving small, shallow puddles where it went. 

Kurosaki regarded her something that was either pity or desire, and helped her onto his horse. From there, they went into the black night, and left the pond rippling––or, perhaps, trembling––in their wake.

* * *

Kurosaki’s house was large. It had been six months since Orihime had arrived, and five since they’d been married, but she still hadn’t adjusted its vastness; she found herself losing her way in corridors more often than not, and would wait for hours in darkened rooms waiting for a stray servant to come by and lead her back to the main room. It wasn’t that she couldn’t do it on her own, but rather that she didn’t want to––the large living space was stifling, and it was only alone that she felt a reprieve.

Today was one such day. Orihime had strayed from her bedroom early in the morning, after Kurosaki had embarked on his daily hunt, and had roamed the halls for hours, examining with curiosity the various trinkets she found strewn throughout the house. 

“It’s strange,” she murmured, dragging her fingers lightly across the dusty window on the third floor, “that people can lose track of their possessions so easily…”

A soft cough disrupted her. There was a strange sense of déjà vu as she looked over her shoulder once more and made eye contact with the second man to sneak up on her in the past half-year. This man was lithe, not as tall as Kurosaki but just as well maintained. His skin was pale––so pale it almost seemed inhuman––and his green eyes were both dull and piercing, sending shivers under her skin but appearing to barely notice her. His hair, black as night, was tucked behind his ears; his hands, likewise, folded behind his back. He did not smile.

The air hummed with a rhythm she had never heard before, and she thought to herself, bewildered, _I’ve fallen in love._

Orihime’s face flushed a deep, irrevocable red when she realized she’d let the silence drag on. “I’m terribly sorry,” she stammered, words tripping over themselves. “I didn’t––you took me by surprise, sir, I wasn’t––”

The man waved his hand in cold dismissal, and it made her fall in love with him a little bit more. “There is no need for apologies,” he said, flatly. “You caused me neither insult nor injury. I was merely seeking your attention.”

“My attention, sir?” inquired Orihime, folding her arms across her chest. She was shivering, though it wasn’t cold. The way he was hazing at her made her feel at once hideous and splendorous, like a creature under a microscope built for inspection. It was so different from Kurosaki’s proud glances, or the pitying looks the staff sent her way when they thought she wasn’t looking.

“You are my stepbrother’s wife,” the man said.

It wasn’t a question, but Orihime nodded. “Yes,” she replied. After a second’s pause her hand flew to her mouth, and she whispered, taken aback, “Then you are––”

“Ulquiorra Schiffer,” the man interrupted. “Indeed. I was told to escort you into town, but you were nowhere to be found on the first floor. Though, from what I’ve been told, this isn’t an uncommon occurrence.”

Orihime’s teeth dug into her bottom lip. “Apologies, Mr. Schiffer,” she said, eyes welling with tears. “I had no intention of leaving you waiting… I hadn’t been informed of your plans to visit.”

“I have no patience for people who get caught up in apologies,” Ulquiorra sighed, and extended an arm to her. “Stop crying, woman. Wasting more time over such a minor incident would be foolish. The weather is still quite nice––shall we head out?”

His words were harsh, but there was a kindness beneath the tough veneer. It was nice to hear such honesty; unlike the attendants who seemed to chitter at every word Orihime said, Ulquiorra––though he was undeniably rude––didn’t comfort her like a child.

Her cheeks were still wet with tears, but Orihime smiled anyways, taking his arm. “Yes,” she agreed. “I would enjoy that very much, sir.”

As they walked out of the building and onto the sunlit path that led towards the village, Ulquiorra said, “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you, as no one who I’ve encountered thus far has been able to provide an answer. What name do you use?”  
  
Orihime blinked. She hadn’t even thought of it, but Ulquiorra was correct––since she’d arrived at Kurosaki’s house, not a single person other than her husband himself had asked her name. Not even her husband’s parents had expressed an interest; they’d merely referred to her as ‘daughter-in-law.’ With a breathy laugh, she exclaimed, “I think you’re the first person who’s mentioned that to me! How strange!” Ulquiorra’s arm stiffened under her grip, but he displayed no other physical reaction to her declaration. When he remained silent, she said, “Since my birth, I have gone by Orihime Inoue. That was the name bestowed upon me by my parents; that is the name I will use until I die. It helps me keep track of––of myself. Is that odd?”

“Not Kurosaki?” asked Ulquiorra, brows raised in mild surprise, ignoring the second question posed to him.

“No,” replied Orihime, shortly. “Not Kurosaki.”

They continued on in peaceful quiet, save for the overhead chirping of the birds. It was a hot day; the sun beat down on Orihime’s back, and her nape was wet with sweat. The atmosphere was awkward and she felt the urge to babble coming upon her, but somehow she sensed that if she tried to make small talk, Ulquiorra would quickly tire of the conversation.

Still. It would be rude not to say _anything._

“When did you come back from overseas?” asked Orihime, eyes darting to Ulquiorra’s.

“Yesterday,” he replied after a pause, staring steadfastly straight ahead. “My stepfather sent me out on a business venture just six months ago. When it ended, I was instructed to return home, and I complied.”

Orihime let her gaze slide back to the path ahead of them, and said, “Did you enjoy it? Being overseas, I mean.”

This time, it was Ulquiorra’s turn to look at her. “Did I ‘enjoy’ it?” he repeated, voice thick with confusion. “Does that truly matter? It was a business endeavour. My own feelings have nothing to do with it.”

“Of course it matters!” said Orihime, quicker and more passionately than she’d initially intended. When Ulquiorra’s eyebrow raised again, she explained, “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to be so crude… I only wanted to express my surprise at the notion that such a long voyage wouldn’t affect you. Being sent away from one’s home and into an unfamiliar environment seems as if it could be harrowing, perhaps?”

“I suppose I hadn’t considered it like that,” said Ulquiorra, frowning. “To me, it had never been a question of my own involvement, but rather one of my stepfather’s… I was merely his instrument in that region. Though I see no issue with that, I do understand your point.”

“And I see yours,” Orihime acknowledged. “As someone who has never been involved in business, I failed to understand that dimension of your travels. Certainly your main interest would be your father’s investment rather than personal pleasure on such a journey.”

Ulquiorra paused in thought as they stopped in front of the town square. “Forgive me if I’m being presumptuous,” he started, more tentative than she’d heard him sound thus far, “but I would like to continue speaking to you like this. I’m sure Ichigo occupies the majority of your time, but––”

“The pleasure would be all mine, Mr. Schiffer,” said Orihime, cheeks flooded with warmth. “Whenever you choose, I shall be waiting for you.”

At this, the corners of Ulquiorra’s mouth twitched up into a faint smile. “Good,” he said with finality. “Let’s go on, then. I’m sure we’ll have much to discuss.”

* * *

For the next few weeks, they spoke regularly, often meeting in the gardens for tea or––on particularly nice days––going into town together and chatting on the way there. Surprisingly, they had more in common than Orihime had initially believed; they shared a love of literature, and even appreciated many of the same artists, though admittedly Orihime’s knowledge was limited to those whose work she’d encountered in the home or in books. Unlike during those first few aimless months of marriage, Orihime looked forward to each coming day knowing that she’d be able to meet with Ulquiorra and deepen her understanding of the man who’d so deeply captured her attention.

Today had been an outlier. Ulquiorra, at the behest of his stepfather, had been out hunting with Kurosaki. The women of the household had decided to embroider on the veranda in the meantime, so with a heavy heart she’d gone to seek the pattern she was in the midst of completing and resigned herself to a boring day of mindless work, stuck in the oppressive heat of late summer.

Now, as she sat on the ledge of the window in her bedchamber, she let out a deep, pensive sigh, staring at the moon through the filmy curtains. Orihime knew that her yearning for Ulquiorra was inappropriate, but she hardly cared. Kurosaki barely spoke to her outside of a public context; they didn’t share rooms, and he’d hardly ever touched her. It was too late to venture outside, but she dreamed of sneaking to Ulquiorra’s rooms to go find him, of what would happen when she arrived. Ulquiorra’s cold fingers would run across her hot skin, perhaps, cupping her cheeks and skimming the arch of her cheekbones, tracing the seam of her lips and––

“Ms. Inoue,” a familiar voice called out from below. “Are you there?”

Cheeks flushed simultaneously with the embarrassment of being caught in the act and the thrill of hearing Ulquiorra’s voice again, Orihime leaned out of the window, long hair dragging over the sill and slipping into the night. “Mr. Schiffer,” she breathed out, drinking in the sight of him. “I hadn’t anticipated… I fear I assumed you wouldn’t visit today, but I’m so very glad you’ve come.”

“It’s strange,” Ulquiorra said, head tilted back to look at her, “for I didn’t anticipate coming, either. I had planned on retiring to my rooms after the hunt, but I felt a strange compulsion to come here and see you.”

Orihime laughed. “What a pair of fools we are,” she said. “I felt the exact same way.”

A tense silence filled the air, until Ulquiorra said suddenly, “If you are amenable, I believe I should come up to your rooms. There is something we must––”  
  
“I agree,” interrupted Orihime, anxiety and desperation burning in the pit of her stomach. “And I would be. Amenable, that is.”

Ulquiorra reached up and ran his fingers through the hair that dangled out of the window, and brought it to his lips. Though she couldn’t feel their touch, Orihime’s heart raced, “Give me one moment, Orihime,” he promised, “and I will be there.”

Orihime’s eyes squeezed shut as she nodded, chest tight. _He called me Orihime,_ she thought, completely entranced in the dark of her isolated room. _No one here has done that yet._

She could hear Ulquiorra’s footsteps receding as he strode away from beneath her window, and heard them again when he mounted the stairs to where her room lay at the top of the short tower. When he finally arrived, bathed in the darkness of night, the moon and stars––which shone lightly upon them, and cast strange, shivering splotches of moonlight onto Ulquiorra’s face––bore witness to the meeting of their lips under the pitch black sky.

And from beneath the tower, through the curtain that billowed in the wind, so did Ichigo Kurosaki.


End file.
